


Weathering the Storm

by Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Douglas cares more deeply than he likes to let on, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martin is wise to the ways of the Douglas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 08:03:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7306702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Fandot Summer Christmas fic for a-drab-lunacy.  The prompt was "Just hold me...please?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weathering the Storm

By the time Douglas steps through the doorway, the sky has melted into the gunmetal grey of a summer storm, complete with lashing rain and howling wind.  His spine is set in the same insouciant slouch as ever, cap tilted at its usual rakish angle, and his gait as even.  But something in the way his fringe plasters to his forehead, or the slant of his shoulders, or the depth of the lines around his mouth tells Martin’s practiced eye that the set of flights has not gone well.

“Hello, you,” he says as he carefully heaves himself up from the armchair and hobbles across the room, the heavy thud of his walking cast matching every drop of rain from Douglas’s soggy coat.  “Good flight?”  

“As expected,” Douglas says, letting his flight bag fall with a thud to the floor and wrapping his arms around Martin’s waist automatically.  He permits himself the smallest of sighs and pulls Martin closer when his balance threatens to betray him.  “Herc was his usual...Hercish self, and Carolyn was something less than pleased to be serving on her own.  The perfect combination for a smooth trip to bloody _Armageddon._ ”

Martin leans up and pecks a kiss on his lips to silence the grumbling.  “Come through,” he says, hands already deftly unbuttoning Douglas’s coat.  “Something dry, something warm, something filling.”

Douglas nods and scrubs at the back of his head--a gesture of exhaustion Martin hasn’t seen in ages--and winces when drops fall on Martin’s face.  “Sorry,” he mumbles, and swipes them away with his thumb.  Carefully, he settles Martin back on his feet and steps back, taking his coat from Martin.  “Just going up to change.”

Martin listens to the slow, heavy tread on the stairs and feels his heart sink with guilt.  He knows having to take every flight is wearing on Douglas--not that he complains--and he wishes again that he’d never even taken the job in the first place.   _Seventeen cats_ , he thinks to himself as he heads into the kitchen to warm Douglas’s dinner through.   _Who on earth has seventeen cats?!_

When the food is in the oven and the teas have been made, Martin makes his inordinately cautious way up the stairs.  The door to their room isn’t shut, but the only light is a sliver from under the bathroom door.

“Douglas?” he asks quietly as he hobbles in, setting the mugs on his chest of drawers.  When he doesn’t get an answer, he frowns, turning to call towards the bathroom.  But Douglas isn’t in there, either.

It takes Martin an embarrassing amount of time to discover him huddled under the duvet.  Instantly, his concern turns to actual, genuine worry.  He climbs onto the bed gingerly, settling his hand on where he judges Douglas’s shoulder will be.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and does his best not to let his voice spike into fear.  “What happened?”

There’s a long silence before the duvet rises and falls sharply in a sigh.  “Nothing.”  Douglas’s voice is low and muffled, and so _so_ weary.  “Just tired.”   
  
Martin pets at his shoulder absently and pushes away enough of the bedding to uncover the tip of Douglas’s ear, which he leans over to kiss gently.  “I’m sorry, love,” he says quietly.  “I know it must be hard.”   
  
Douglas doesn’t answer, doesn’t _move_ , and the silence is as much damning admission as exhaustion.  

For a long while, Martin just pets at Douglas’s shoulder, sweeps his fingers through the salt and pepper locks at Douglas’s temple.  Finally, “Food’s ready.  Do you want to come down and eat?”

Another silence, then Douglas shakes his head.

Martin frowns.  “I made tea.  Would you like some?”

Another rejection.

“Oh,” Martin says, and tries not to feel stung.  “Is...is there anything I _can_ do?”

This silence is different somehow, weighted down with the atmosphere of Douglas’s clear internal struggle.  Then, in a voice thick with reluctance and guilt and inescapable _need_ , says “Just hold me….please?”

Martin kisses Douglas’s ear again in reward, murmuring “Of course,” before pausing.  “After I turn off the oven.  Back in a tick.”  Another kiss and he’s gone, breaking some sort of land speed with walking cast record on the way.

Douglas hasn’t moved by the time Martin comes back.  He slides under the duvet and tugs at Douglas’s shoulder until he turns over.  It’s obvious Douglas is ashamed ( _s_ _till_ , Martin thinks sadly), to be shown so _needy_.  He keeps his head ducked low, burying his face against Martin’s shoulder.

There’s nothing he can say, Martin knows, that will make Douglas feel less guilty, so he just focuses on keeping the sweep of his fingers through Douglas’s hair, down his neck, across his shoulders, soft and tender.  It’s not long before Douglas is asleep, dead weight against Martin’s side in the limp, unmovable sleep of exhaustion.  Moving as slowly as he can, Martin shifts until he can snag Douglas’s phone, swiping off the alarm and setting it back on the nightstand.

Martin lays back and ponders the ceiling and tries not to fall even more in love with the enormous heart and loyalty tucked beneath the breastbone of the man who is currently lying in his arms.

He is something less than successful.


End file.
